Pomeroy’s to produce accounts which would appear satisfactory. The Relief Fund money was to help to stabilize the position.”
“Wholesale falsification of accounts,” murmured Rollison.
Yes. There can’t be any reasonable doubt about it.”
“Fat Pomeroy denied any share in the firm, and the firm denied him.”
“That isn’t a crime in itself,” said Grice. “He told me that until the last moment he hoped Barrington-Ley would be able to put his affairs in order. He—fat Pomeroy—became involved, and decided to try to cover up the shortages. The rest followed naturally.”
“It could be the answer,” Rollison said. “Have you seen the accounts?”
“Not yet, but we’re applying for a Court Order to see them as well as the various banking accounts.”
“So you’re relying on fat Pomeroy’s word.”
“Why on earth should he lie at this juncture?” demanded Grice. “Shayle supports him in every statement, and their statements were made independently. Malloy knows little about it, apparently he was employed to supply violence when necessary. He employed the painter at Miss Armitage’s flat— yes, you were right about that, they wanted her dead. They don’t admit intent to murder, of course, only to frighten.”
“Why frighten?”
“They thought Janice Armitage had told her sister where to find Marcus Shayle, and in any case she could incriminate Shayle—as she did. Once we knew her story, the rest came logically. They were right to want her out of the way if they were to save themselves.”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “But there’s an answer to your earlier question—why should Pomeroy and Shayle lie at this juncture? Neither lies nor the truth will save them from punishment, but a confession, talk of King’s Evidence, putting the principal blame on Barrington-Ley—all those will help them.”
“Nonsense! They’ve practically admitted complicity in murder!”
“Oh, my dear chap,” said Rollison. “There was no murder until the matron’s. Has Malloy talked?”
“No.”
“But they’ve admitted they used him to provide the strong-arm men, you say. They’ll doubtless insist that he was instructed not to commit murder”
“They won’t get away with that,” interrupted Grice. “They’ve gone too far in their admissions.”
“Don’t forget that unless they killed the matron, which doesn’t seem likely, there’s no murder charge against them,” said Rollison. “They’re safe enough on that. They’re putting the blame on to Barrington-Ley, standing together to negate his evidence. Now you’ve got them, it’s their only wise course. But never mind, you’ve got your case, short of the matron’s murder. Let’s leave the sore subject of who killed her. When will you be able to examine the accounts?”
“This evening, I expect.”
“You can falsify accounts two ways,” said Rollison. “You can make good ones seem bad, as well as bad ones seem good. Don’t forget that.”
“I’ve never known you quite like this,” said Grice. “It isn’t any use trying to deny the facts.”
“I question their accuracy,” Rollison said. “There are two people in whom I believe—the Countess and Barrington-Ley. They are not, in my view, people who would become involved in such an affair as this of their own free will. That’s the issue, and your answer is different from mine.”
“Very different, apparently,” said Grice.
Rollison said: “And now you want to arrest the Countess for conspiring with Barrington-Ley, I suppose?”
“I must take her along with me,” said Grice, evasively.
“On a charge of conspiring to defraud?”
“I haven’t got as far as that yet.”
“I’m glad that you’re wideawake enough for that,” said Rollison, sitting up and pushing the eiderdown back. “You certainly haven’t got as far, you haven’t a charge of any kind which you can prefer against her. Pretending to having lost her memory? You might construe it into being a public nuisance but if I were you I wouldn’t try. Poisoning herself? Even you don’t believe she tried to commit suicide. And everything else that has happened in England in this affair took place when she was at the nursing home with a sound alibi, an alibi your own men provided, or else here, with one that the maid, Jolly, or I can provide. On the evidence of one letter and some gossip you can assume that she was having an affair with Barrington-Ley, but that’s no crime. Oh, take her along with you, old chap! Go through the motions of charge and arrest, and I’ll be on the doorstep with a complaint of wrongful detention before you can say knife.”
“Now, Rolly”
“Now Rolly be damned!” said Rollison. “Where are my trousers?” He took them from a chair. “I’ve warned you.” He sat down and pulled on his trousers, staring at Grice all the time. “Wrongful detention after you’ve been warned is serious. You haven’t a case, you know as well as I do that if you take her up before the magistrate you’ll get sharp words from the gentleman, unless you’ve a lot more to go on than you’ve told me.”
Grice’s expression told him that he had not.
“And there is another thing,” said Rollison, vehemently. “The police are no fools, but sometimes they have been fooled. You are being properly and completely diddled. On the evidence of a well-known East End crook who hires-out strong men for any beastly job that offers, of Pomeroy, a renegade solicitor-cum-accountant, and Marcus Shayle, himself detained on a charge of attempted murder, you’re assuming that Barrington-Ley is guilty of all manner of heinous crimes. Why? Only because it fits your own theory.”
“He hasn’t said a word in his own defence.”
